


there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out

by hubrisandwax



Series: Shameless episode codas [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x10 date au fic, Basically, Discussions of mental illness, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, and depression, diverges from canon the moment the boys reach the gallagher house, if Sammi did not call the army AU, if ian and mickey could be happy AU, rated mature bc there is sexytimes mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5x10 post episode AU/fix-it fic; Sammi doesn't call the Army. Ian and Mickey get to have their date, feat. apologies, a fancy-ish restaurant, and happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out

**Author's Note:**

> after that v painful ep i had to write fix-it fic to try and make myself feel better. this diverges from canon, as the tag says, at the point ian and mickey arrive back at the gallagher house. it non-explicitly mentions the stuff that went down at the dugouts, as a warning, just in case you're not down with that. could also be read as a sequel to the dugout AU i wrote last week (which had a lot less violence and a lot more sex).
> 
> i'm not american, or i probably would have written it at a Sizzlers-like restaurant. as an ignorant australian, i set it where i did. idk.

Mickey borrows your shirt.

It’s green, it’s too big, and it doesn’t quite suit Mickey’s skin tone, but at least it’s not dirty. You can’t stop grinning at him, to be honest, and he keeps shooting you these tiny little looks, the edge of his mouth quirked like he’s just so damn pleased you’re there.

Sammi’s sitting on the couch as you leave, and she tries to say something to you, but you think Mickey flips her the bird before you’re leaning on each other and stumbling out the door.

Mickey in your shirt is really fucking damn hot. It keeps doing things to your dick. You try to ignore it.

The world is sort of too-bright and fuzzy and kind of smeared, but at least you’re feeling something. You think feeling nothing might be worse than feeling down. It’s like a void you could sink into if you don’t struggle against the current, too easy, sucking the meaning, the joy, from everything. At least feeling depressed means there's care, or _something_ , underscoring the pain. Nothing means literally nothing; you just stop giving a fuck.

But right here, right now, you have Mickey’s warm weight pressed against your side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, and all you feel is happiness and love.

“Where to, Ian?” Mickey says as you stumble unsteadily up the street together. “I’m still really hangin’ out for something bloody.” He says it with raised eyebrows, like it’s some kind of joke, and you snort. It’s really not. You don’t think you can bring it up right now, though, so you say, “Downtown, I guess.” You’re still coherent.

“Whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to get all soppy and shit, okay.” Like Mickey hasn’t spent the last three months doting on you like the sentimental idiot he really is.

You reach the station just as the train pulls up, Mickey managing to pay for your tickets with the loose change in his pockets. He waves your hand away when you try to give him the money back. “If we’re doin’ this shit, I’m doing it properly.”

On the train, you manage to find a carriage that’s empty. You take a seat near the back. Mickey keeps playing footsie and doing the whole staring-at-you-but-pretending-not-to thing, clearly fighting a smile, and eventually you just go for gold and force him to hold your hand. Really, you’re virtually sitting in each other’s laps; handholding is probably a step backwards.

It’s too hot and too bright on the train with the alcohol buzz. You can still see flecks of blood under Mickey’s fingernails, and you’re hit with a wave of guilt again. Luckily the alcohol numbs you, a little bit, forces you to focus on only one thing at a time, so you manage to fight the feeling away and bring the back of Mickey’s hand to your mouth to kiss, just to piss him off. It doesn’t work. Instead he giggles – fucking _giggles_ – and tries to tickle you. You both end up a tangle of limbs on the floor, writhing, laughing, which eventually turns to kissing, and then you’re making out on a train car floor in plain sight. Mickey doesn’t even seem to give a fuck. Small miracles.

Personally, you think the train arrives at your stop all too soon. Downtown Chicago’s night lights glitter like someone’s thrown a handful of diamonds in the air. Mickey pulls you from the floor and tugs you out onto the platform. He doesn’t let go of your hand, stashing your laced fingers and clenched palms into the pocket of his coat, still looking way too pleased with himself.

“Sizzlers doesn’t exist in the Midwest, by the way,” you say absently. Mickey huffs out a laugh.

“I know you’re into that fancy shit, with candles and whateverthefuck. Your pick. As long as they have a bit of meat on the menu – “ forever the joker tonight, he makes a lewd movement with his empty fist and his tongue in his mouth – “I’m game.”

You’re both too intoxicated to travel far, so you pull Mickey into the closest restaurant you find that looks affordable and like it possibly serves good old American fare. You know you both look worse for wear, Mickey in an ill-fitting shirt, both of you drunk, both with busted faces, but the maître d’ leads you to a booth up the back and presents you with menus and today’s specials. Mickey looks sort of in awe, like he’s suffering some sort of culture shock.

So you order two beers from the waiter when he appears, a rare steak, as well as some sort of gourmet burger, and you look up at Mickey through your lashes. He still looks fucking hot wearing your shirt, skin pale and hair dark in the candlelight, his eyes so blue they look like a clear summer sky.

“They even have cloth napkins here, man,” Mickey says, and you’re really pleased you can give him a new experience you know he’ll enjoy. “Imagine cleaning off the stains all the rich fuckers make.”

“Bleach,” you say, smiling dopily. He looks gorgeous. You’re such a fucking romantic, God, but you’re drunk and in love and you reckon you’re allowed. Mickey’s hand is resting on the table, and you desperately want to take it, to show you appreciate him. Instead you clench your good fist in your lap.

Mickey says, then, “This isn’t our first date, not really.” He looks a little sheepish, pink dusting his cheeks. You know it’s the alcohol making him so candid. You don’t care. “We had most of that summer, y’know, the last time we banged at the pitch.”

You grin. “I was your mistress, Mick.”

“Naw,” he says. The waiter deposits your beers on the table. Mickey takes a sip. “You were my…” He frowns. “… Mine.”

“Whatever you say,” you reply, smiling harder, but he’s right, really. You started to fall for him, were indefinably ‘his,’ the moment you felt his hard-on that day in his room when you were trying to get the gun back. Maybe even before then. Time is messy, and even messier when there are feelings involved.

Mickey’s mouth stretches wider and he reaches across the table to swipe his thumb across your lower lip. “You had…” he says, and sucks his thumb into his mouth.

Maybe dinner was a bad idea. Maybe you should have just taken him up to your room and locked the door for round two.

The food arrives, then. Mickey’s thrilled with his steak, and declares loudly, with his mouth full, that he thinks it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever eaten. You tell him that your burger comes second only to his ass, and he almost chokes on his fries. “Why you gotta ruin it, man,” he mutters, but it doesn’t stop him from piling his fork with more food and pushing it into his mouth.

You end up swapping your plates when you’re only three quarters done, because Mickey wants to try your burger and insists that you have to try some of his steak. It really is pretty damn good. He laughs when it bleeds down your chin and you moo at him in response.

Later, once your plates are cleared and you’ve ordered dessert – Mickey picked the first thing he could see that included ‘jello’, and you decided on pumpkin pie – Mickey sheepishly pulls his bag up from under the table. He shifts uncomfortably and says, “Your meds,” before he starts to sort through the shit inside it, clearly looking for the drugs, refusing to meet your eyes. You feel ashamed. You feel painfully guilty. You reach across the table and wrap your fingers around his wrist, because this is something you have to do. Something you’ve been avoiding all evening.

“I’m really sorry, Mickey. I…” you can’t find the right words. Your voice is thick with emotion. “After everything you’ve been through, I should’ve…” You can’t finish. Mickey has stopped moving. Neither of you do this well. “I should’ve never. Never again. It was disgusting. I’m sorry.”

Mickey exhales through his teeth. “I get it, you know,” he says, voice even. “The cheating, the energy, the depression, the anger. I just.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “I’m fuckin’ trying, man, okay?”

“I know.” You look away and laugh humorlessly. You can’t fucking stand seeing him hurting like this. “It’s not you. It’s me. I do appreciate you, and everything you’ve done. You… you’re great, Mickey. Perfect. All you do is care and I...”

Mickey shakes his head. “Just tell me, man. Don’t hit me.”

You smile at him, but it’s watery. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” he says, but you can tell he’s pleased. His eyes crinkle at the edges. He finds the bottles and hands them over to you, and you swallow the pills with a glass of water and a mouth of pumpkin pie.

You offer to bolt and leave the bill, but Mickey says that he has the money to do this thing; he wants to for you, it’s not really expensive. Instead you say, “I’m the one with the job, Mick, plus I owe you, really, after today,” and you fold a couple of bills into the cardboard wallet. Mickey tries to grab it from you, so you try to sit on it, which doesn’t really work as the waiter dude needs to pick it up, so instead you stand, dump it on the table, and drag Mickey towards the bathroom before he can replace your money with his own.

You have sex in one of the tiny stalls, because Mickey wearing your clothes will never not be hot. He says something about this being your big up you to capitalism, fucking in middle-class prick’s toilet, and you laugh and kiss the words out of his mouth.

Mickey offers to take you to a park and sit on the grass to stargaze with you, if that’s what you want, like somehow his idea of a date always involves picnics or blankets or something from a Nicholas Sparks novel. You tell him that you’d rather rim him and make him groan louder than he did in the bathroom, which was pretty fucking loud, so you end up on the L heading back to your house. Mickey falls on your shoulder somewhere half way, so you run your fingers through his hair and kiss his forehead. He’s yours, and sometimes you still can’t believe that. Mickey Milkovich, who everyone thinks is a south-side white trash thug, looks at you like you’re the fucking sun and cares for you better than anyone you’ve ever known. Loves you harder. He’s better than any of them. There’s so much love store in that tiny body, and all Mickey ever needed was an outlet - someone to give him a chance, to love him back. It’s frightening, how utterly you fucked you are, both figuratively and literally, by the boy sleeping on your shoulder, his hand fisted in your jacket.

Tomorrow, you may wake up and no longer feel properly. You might feel sad; you might feel numb; you might feel nothing. If you do feel at all, it will probably be like you’re experiencing everything second hand, or like you’re underwater, or behind glass.

But at least you have this.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Charles Bukowski's poem _[Bluebird](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bluebird/)_.


End file.
